


The Heart Asks Pleasure First

by BiziBee



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), The Piano (1993)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Amputation, Childhood Trauma, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Credence and Modesty as found family, Dark Past, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Irish Percival Graves, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Mental Health Issues, Missionaries, Musical Instruments, Muteness, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Selectively Mute Credence Barebone, Sexual Tension, They care so much about each other you guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiziBee/pseuds/BiziBee
Summary: It's true, that Credence has not spoken since he was a child--except that he has. Not with his lips per se, but with his mind and through his late mother’s piano. His piano. The one that travels with him from his home in lush England to a new settlement community onto more foreign shores, after his grandfather’s decision to trade him off into the care of devout and strict Mary Lou Barebone. Thrown from one unloving and uncomfortable environment to another, Credence struggles to warm to his new life and surroundings, though he soon finds himself becoming slowly intrigued by the gruff Irishman who lives awhile away from them.
Relationships: Credence Barebone/Original Percival Graves
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	The Heart Asks Pleasure First

Rain pattering on the glass windows. Grandfather clock ticking, each passing minute bringing its chimes closer to ringing out. Echoing in the room, perhaps throughout the hall for everyone else to hear it. Signalling the end of this dreary meeting in this just as dreary room where Credence was seated on the deceptively plush sofa propped up next to the window. Legs hugged to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. Head resting against the cold glass, eyes looking at the raindrops traversing it, at the trees outside being gently tousled about by the storm. 

Anywhere but next to him, at the desk where another and much older man sat waiting. Waiting now, for five quiet minutes, to the answer that Credence did not wish to give to his aforementioned question.

_“What happened the day she died, Credence?”_

He’d heard this question before. More times than he would have cared to, yet it was the only thing anyone here ever bothered to ask him. As if that would unlock some deep, dark part of his mind, somehow bringing about a magical, mystical cure to his supposed ailment.

But it wouldn’t. He knew it wouldn’t, for if that were to be the case then he wouldn’t have to use his hands to answer. He wouldn’t be here, in this unfriendly, dimly lit room with the stuffy air and dusty curtains. Not on this couch, not in this place having to talk to this man. Not being woken up at the crack of dawn to have pills shoved down his throat, or being bound and beaten for resisting. 

He would be home. In his own room, waking up at his own time. Reading the books in their library, walking the gardens. Playing his mother’s piano. His piano.

His. 

It was his now, wasn’t it? She was no longer alive to claim it as hers, and Grandfather had never seen fit to sell it, not even after she’d passed, long ago as that was.

It was a day his memory had chosen to have full preservation of, although he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t a particularly joyful or fond memory, given the circumstances of it all. Yet it remained sealed in his brain, in his vault of vivid imagery that he could recall just as soon as the moment called for it.

Like now. This moment now, where he was being asked again, for maybe the fifth time this week. What did he remember about the day she died, what were you doing, what did you do? The same thing, rephrased or repurposed, never anything new. He was weary of it, just as he was weary of those bitter pills they fed to him, of those cold baths they insisted holding him under until he passed out. Of the broom handles they beat him with, the leather wristlets they’d bind his hands with.

 _“Cooperation will gain you fair treatment.”_ they’d always say, always remind him, but he never cared enough to listen. What was fair treatment in this place, less dunking? Less being bound and beaten? 

It would be nice, to have less of those things. To not have them at all. Perhaps if they so desired such things from him then maybe they should try asking him newer questions. 

That didn’t seem as if that would be the case today, however. It would never be the case and he knew this in his heart, that it would be a repetition of the same words, the same phrases until they got what they wanted. 

The man at the desk was asking him again, impatience heavy in his voice. Something tapping at the desk, his cigar, maybe? He’d been smoking a cigar when they’d brought Credence in here earlier, he could still smell it now—the strong scent of burley tobacco, similar to the kinds his grandfather often smoked. Could see the smoke as it wafted about in the dense air, mixed with the dust specs that were floating about. 

“Tell me, Credence. Tell me what happened that day.”

_That day._

Oh, he didn’t want to. He didn’t; it wasn’t fair to ask this of him when he’d told him so many times before. To conjure up such a distressing moment of his life, to be forced to speak of it and for what...for nothing. Only to be caused a great deal of anguish, before being told the same things and thrown back into his room for the rest of the day unless they decided to do otherwise.

_That day..._

That day that his mother died. That day when the air smelled like roses and honeysuckle, and wisps of white clouds danced about in the summer sky.

He remembered running through the fields as she stayed behind on the picnic blanket they’d spread out next to the oak tree where his grandmother was buried. A gentle summer breeze as it whipped at his raven curls, sometimes pulling them back from his face, sometimes marring his vision depending on which way he’d run. Plucking up every flower in sight, not caring to shake the dirt from the roots and stems, his fingernails slowly becoming caked with dirt. Hands, pants, staining as he knelt to dig. 

Mama wouldn’t have been cross at this, Credence thinks. Not for a single minute, and instead would’ve surely laughed at his filthily disheveled state as he came back to her, graciously accepting the muddy bouquet which she would then place on the blanket, next to their basket which hours earlier had been packed with sandwiches, fruit, and a large canteen full of cold water that was now lukewarm. 

She’d tell him to hold still, and he would’ve tried his best to. 

He would’ve, standing there as patiently and obediently as he possibly could while she poured some of the lukewarm water onto her favorite silk handkerchief, which she would then dab at his face, his hands, for the next few minutes. He would continue to try and stay still, though he would’ve fussed--not for himself, of course, but for her handkerchief. Her nice handkerchief, a gift given to her years ago by his grandmother before she’d passed. Made of genuine silk, and was such a beautiful creamy shade that it almost seemed a pity to dirty it.

He would’ve fussed over it, he would’ve fussed something terrible about it before Mama would tell him to hush. _Stains can always be washed away,_ she’d have insisted, continuing on in her effort to clean him up. _And I’d rather it be this handkerchief that gets stained versus your grandfather’s rug._

Exactly that. 

She would have said _exactly_ that, she’d said it once before while they’d eaten their lunch. And he would say no more afterwards, would go quiet and still once more until she’d finished with his face, with his hands, and put her soiled handkerchief away in her bag. Then she would remove the ribbon tied into her hair, letting it cascade in long, shiny waves while she retrieved the flowers from where they rested beside the basket. He would watch, as she tied the bouquet together, helping as she instructed him to hold his finger in place for her.

She would finish. She would hold the bouquet, she would smile at him. Say something about how pretty it looked, hug him. He’d sit down, and she would read to him from whichever book it was they’d brought with them that day, until the day grew late and they would have to pack everything up and return home. 

Home to that big, empty old house, where Mama would arrange the bouquet in one of her dusty old China vases, and they would eat supper with Grandfather before retiring to the parlor. There they would stay until his bedtime, Grandfather maybe reading by the fire while Credence would sit at the piano with Mama. Watching her fingers as they effortlessly glided across the keys, watching his own when it was his turn to play. And he would play, perhaps not as effortlessly as she but he would be as good someday, he hoped, with enough practice. 

Practice, which would be reserved for tomorrow should he behave well enough to earn it. For as soon as the grandfather clock struck nine, he must step away from the piano. Bid goodnight to Grandfather, follow Mama upstairs. She would bathe him, dress him in his nightclothes, and tuck him into bed. She would continue to read from their book until he’d fallen asleep. Brush back his curls, kiss his forehead, blow out the dimly lit candle on his nightstand. Leave the room.

Except, that’s not how the day ended. 

And everything else, well, that’s not how the rest of the day had gone.

When he’d come back to the blanket, to Mama, he _had_ ran. Not with excitement, not to show her his bouquet, for as soon as he’d approached it fell from his hand, crumpling and scattering, petals flying in the wind. He’d begun to cry, to sob, grabbing her hand while the rest of her body had convulsed and jerked beside him. Fingertips growing blue, skin growing cold as the life drained from her body, from her eyes. A lifeless sheen washing over their once lively and soft grey, lips remaining slightly parted as she finally went stagnant, and he went quiet.

This was how they’d found them, hours into the evening as the sun began to set.

Grandfather must’ve been worried, for her, surely not for Credence. He knew that the older gentlemen had never been very fond of him, calling him a “blight on his mother’s reputation". And the way he looked at him, oh that face was enough to haunt his dreams. Should Mama read to him from his book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, any monster from those stories would have that face, as soon as Credence dared close his eyes. 

But he’d never said so, had never told Mama. She loved Grandfather as much as he loved her, and so that must’ve been the reason he’d come out there, with some other men he didn’t recognize. Perhaps it’d been because he’d fallen asleep in the time they’d taken to come looking, that his vision was bleary at first and all he could very well see was the faint lights of the lantern in the distance as they came closer. 

He’d never forgotten how one of those lights had disappeared, dropping into the hands of another man as soon as Grandfather had spotted Mama’s body splayed out on the ground, Credence’s tiny, shivering form curled up next to it. Never forgotten the gut wrenching cries he’d let out, as he held his daughter’s body in his arms, shaking her, trying his best to rouse her. Dropping her, grabbing Credence by his shoulders. Shaking him, yelling at him as he stared back with wide, terrified eyes.

He’d wanted to know what had happened, Credence knew that. But he could not will himself to speak, not for the rest of that evening. Not the next morning, or the day after when Mama was buried, the week after that, the months after that. The years, which came and went faster than he would’ve liked them to, and still, nothing.

Nothing from his lips, from his throat. Only his mind and his heart, and the words which he scribbled onto the small pieces of paper nestled within the small metal box tied to his neck. From his hands as he learned; Grandfather had hired a special tutor for him a year or two after it’d happened, one who’d taught him to sign and in turn, had taught everyone else around the house to understand it.

Even then, he couldn’t say it’d helped much. His existence from the age of six to his current age of twenty had been frustrating, painful—not to mention lonesome. Grandfather had rarely, if ever, tried to talk to him, exchanged a few fair words here and there during meal times. He would rarely leave the house, only on Sundays for chapel but at no other times, although he could roam the gardens as much as he pleased. He could just bring himself to go beyond them, only close enough to look through the gates, out towards the rest of the word of which he was purposely sheltered from.

Mayhap, that was the reason he was here now. That and some various other reasons that came to mind, that were prevalent about Credence himself. His silence, his tendency to keep to himself. 

Other things that could not be mentioned. 

Things either he didn’t want to mention, or things they didn’t want to mention. Either way, it wasn’t as if he’d had much decision in his coming to this awful place. Decisions were made for him or not at all, and he hadn’t much option in speaking up for himself. Nobody could be bothered to listen with how he spoke, or what he had to say.

Looking away from the window, from the glass, at last sparing a glance to the man--the doctor, Dr. Stewart at the desk. He wasn’t currently smoking his cigar, although it was in his hand. Bushy brows knit together, grey eyes that squinted over at him through the spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. Waiting for an answer still, agitated and aggravated.

“Well?” Back the cigar went to his lips, a draw of smoke filling the air once more. A cough, his voice was hoarse today. Hoarser than it’d been in the days before. “You can answer me, can’t you? We’ve been over this question many times already, I’m not sure how it could be that difficult for you to come up with a response now.”

Credence blinked. He moved his hands, unfolding, unwrapping them from his knees. No leather wristlets secured them, not now, but he supposed it was only because they needed him to talk. A relief for him, given scarred and sore his wrists had become as of late, but he knew it was only a momentary reprieve. He wouldn’t be giving the answers they wanted, and thus meant those wristlets would be binding him once more before he was back in his room.

 _“If we’ve been over this question before, why must I be bothered to answer?”_ he signed the man’s way, causing his knit brows to raise slightly before drawing back together. _“You know what happened, I’ve told you. And I’m tired of telling you.”_

“It’s only to be certain,” Sighing, the doctor removed his spectacles, rubbing them against the fabric of his jacket. “It helps us to realize things we might have missed before, as I told you several times already, and might prove to be helpful in fully understanding the development of your trauma.”

_My trauma._

Credence could only scoff, glanced back out the window. Raindrops slowing down, trees blowing about less. The clock ticking kept on and on, no closer to chiming than it was before. Hands wrapping back around his knees, tighter. Knuckles whitening. No answer, no reply as he refused to give it.

Another sigh. Another puff of smoke from Dr. Stewart’s desk, a groan from his chair as he pushed it back.

“Now Credence, be reasonable.” Footsteps against the floor, creaking and heavy. He neared the sofa, neared Credence, as did that smell of smoke tickling at his nostrils. “Your grandfather isn’t paying you to sit around and mope for two hours while I do all the talking, this requires effort on your part. Effort that I can’t help but notice you haven’t been showing at all since you’ve gotten here.”

He turned, but only to retrieve the ashtray from his desk. 

“Understand that I want to help you, but I can’t do that if you won’t let me.” 

Tapping out his cigar, putting it away. Speaking with such easily detectable sympathy, Credence had had the favor of hearing it from so many others in his lifetime. Especially in the days following Mama’s burial, those days had been the worst of it all. 

They acted like they knew what they were talking about, like they cared. 

But they didn’t. Never would, even if he did try to explain.

So for that, he wouldn’t bother. Didn’t bother now, as Dr. Stewart stood waiting again for the response that would never come. Waiting in silence, the two of them at odds, until the grandfather clock’s deep chimes rang throughout the room.

* * *

He asked him again on that next day, just as Credence had suspected.

Rephrased of course, he wouldn’t dare try asking him in the same way as before. Nevertheless, this didn’t so much as yield any answers he desired, only Credence remaining in the same position, on the same seat. At the same window, except that it wasn’t raining, and that he didn’t have to sit and listen to the grandfather clock for very long. 

Not for the full two hours, at least.

He’d suspected Dr. Stewart was as tired as he was of this drudgery, only not in the same manner. What should it matter when he was being handsomely paid anyway, surely he shouldn’t care if Credence was willing to cooperate with him or not. At the end of their time together he would have his fee, regardless of whether or not they’d accomplished anything...unless he did care somewhat of his well being and truly wanted to help him, but that was highly unlikely given what always proceeded after a near week of failures.

His wrists back in their binds, as they pulled him out of the room and down the hall. To another room, more bleak and without as many supposed comforts. Nothing but a singular tub in its center, filled almost to the brim with freezing cold water. He’d resist, and they’d beat him until he couldn’t stand, dunk him until the air bubbles stopped forming and he was at the point of passing out.

Then it was back to his room, back to his bed where they removed his wristlets just long enough to strap him to the mattress. No screams, no protests now even if he wanted to as he was too weakened to sign, to write--why he couldn’t do that, they’d taken his note paper the day he was brought here. All he could do was lie there limply, allow the prick to his veins, the opium to be pumped into his system. 

No pills to be shoved this time, not when he was being punished. 

Punished for what, Credence didn’t know anymore. If he didn’t say anything then this was how he’d spend the rest of his hours until dark, same for if he did anything. They must be particular around here if his responses couldn’t appease them, perhaps there was a certain type of answer they wanted. Something they wanted him to admit to, but he wasn’t sure of what.

He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Nothing except the hollow ache deep within him, the one that’d taken residency not soon after Mama’s passing--and it’d only grown deeper since then. Festering, eating away at every part of him, blotting out any of the light, any of his joys like ink spilling onto a page. 

Only a tiny part remained untouched, the part which clung to his books, his piano keys..though he feared that it too was soon to be blotted, should he stay here any longer. The more he was away from these things, the more chance he had of being further connected to the few things still keeping him mostly sane.

He would see them in his sleep sometimes, especially after days like this. Sedated, weary and aching, he would drift off just as soon as he was left alone. Eyes closing in his room, opening to the parlor, to see the roaring fireplace, the sofas beside it. The bookshelves which held some of his favorite stories. 

The piano, as it sat there, beckoning to him. 

Beckoning to his very being. 

Longing to be touched, to be played. 

It was something he could only now fulfill in his dreams, and maybe was the only reason that part of him wasn’t completely blotted. Though it was unfair of how real it felt as his fingers pressed at the keys, how real it sounded as their melody drifted into his ears, melded with his soul. He was at one with it, it was his voice and the only thing that could manage to bring him fonder memories and a proper sense of being.

Or it would, until he found himself waking up. All would be gone, the bookshelf, the fireplace. He would no longer be sitting up, his hands no longer free and gliding. Back on the bed, strapped back down, and looking up to the leaking ceiling above as it’d begun to rain again.

* * *

“You’re leaving, Credence. You’re going home.”

Words he never thought he’d hear, and certainly not the ones he’d expected, albeit being far more welcomed than the repetition of that question. 

He’d thought it odd that he wasn’t brought to Dr. Stewart’s office that day, and that instead the older gentleman had come to see him. After he’d been given his pills, his lunch which he’d barely touched, he’d expected the next person who’d entered his room to drag him off to have a rubber tube shoved down in his throat. But then he’d looked, had been stunned to see the doctor entering--smile on his face, not genuine, not warm. 

“Your grandfather stopped by yesterday,” he’d explained, as an orderly stepped in to remove the binds from Credence’s feet. “A little after our session, actually. See, I wanted to meet with him personally, to discuss a better means of your treatment. We still have some finer details to work out, but until then...I figured it wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and have you released.”

A pat on the shoulder, unfriendly, cold like his smile, and Dr. Stewart had left, leaving Credence to be escorted to the baths. A warm bath, not cold, no dunking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten to have a bath like this, getting to scrub his own arms, his own legs. Finally being allowed to change from the filthy rags he’d been dressed in for months, into a nicer set of clothes that his grandfather had apparently had sent over this morning. Shinier boots, a waistcoat, a jacket. A hat to adorn his head, which just now was beginning to grow back the locks that’d been shorn away on his first day here. Gloves to cover his hands, his scarred wrists.

He hardly looked to be the ill patient they’d proclaimed him to be several times over, not as he left the building, would’ve been thought to be merely a visitor if it weren’t how pale he were, how dry and cracked his lips were. How thin he was, how the bruises on his face had begun to fade, and the cuts had been patched over with powder.

But then, this was how he’d looked when they’d admitted him, hadn’t he? Minus the bruises and such, the fact that his hair was longer then. The same people who’d escorted him in were now escorting him out, down the steps and out into the sun. Into the carriage which awaited him, as they loaded his bags atop it. 

Credence could hardly bring himself to look out at the window, back at the hospital as the carriage began to pull away. Fading away, becoming less the looming structure he'd always known it to be. It was conflicting how he felt, whether or not he should be relieved to finally be leaving that wretched place, relieved to be going home. 

He couldn’t be, though. He couldn’t be relieved, not when he knew he was just as unwelcome there as he’d been here.

There were no hugs from Grandfather when he arrived, only polite smiles. Forced _and_ polite, like the one from Dr. Stewart. 

“Welcome back, my boy.” A brief handshake, hands hardly touching. Credence avoided his gaze best he could, eyes concentrated elsewhere. “You look like you’ve been doing well, I’m glad to see they took good care of you. Just as I requested.”

Credence had no response to this. None whatsoever, not even forcing himself to return the faux smile. An awkward minute of silence passed before Grandfather had excused himself, saying there was some business he needed to take care of. Instructed the servants to take Credence’s things upstairs, told him to settle back in as he saw fit.

Then he was gone, off to his study. 

Just as Credence had expected, just as he was used to. 

He wasn’t sure his grandfather had ever been one for pleasantries. At least, he couldn’t remember that far back--maybe he’d been that way before he was born, he had to have been otherwise Mama wouldn’t have cared for him as she had. She was the only thing that’d brought him back, the only thing that had kept him from staying locked up at the hospital. A promise from Grandfather, an unwilling promise that he would take care of him should the worst come to pass. That promise might be the one reason he wasn’t permanently left in a straitjacket, left to rot and retreat further into himself. 

He could do that all on his own, and without the straitjacket. That was the sole difference between this house and that hospital, that he had the use of his hands. 

And for that, he considered himself mostly grateful. For if he didn’t have the use of his hands, it meant he was voiceless. Both literally and figuratively speaking, as it wasn’t just signing he used as a means to speak.

That means sat tucked into the corner of the parlor, as it always was. Credence had to admit he was surprised to see it there, he would’ve thought Grandfather would pack it away in the attic as soon as he’d sent him off to be committed. But no, there it sat, the same as ever, albeit a bit dustier. 

He walked to it as soon as he saw it, leaving his things for the servants to carry up to his room. One of them was asking if he should like to come up as well, maybe rest for a bit, but he’d hardly heard them. Couldn’t focus on anything else except seating himself, dragging his hand alongside the dusty keys, sending dust particles scattering about in the room’s enclosed air.

One finger pressed the keys, followed by two more. Followed his left hand as it joined the right, gliding effortlessly across just as they had once upon a time. Somehow, though, it felt like it hadn’t been that long ago at all, no thanks to his dreams. He played as if the last time he’d done so had been yesterday, or the day before that. Like he’d never left at all.

_Alive._

It made him feel so much more alive than anything else, and began to quell the aching threatening to swallow him whole. Oh how he could stay here for hours if he wished, for days if he so desired. Once he’d heard his grandfather remark on how “that piano was tied to him and the day he died, it would die with him”, not a statement made in any sort of jesting matter as one might expect, but spoken with such malice and bitterness that it made Credence uneasy.

He didn’t want to think about death. But at the same time, he didn’t want to think about life. He just wanted to stay here. With this instrument, his fingers forever on the keys and filling the room with such wondrous music for all of a celebrated and grandiose eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> Me?? Still caring about Gradence in the year of our Lord 2020? It's more likely than you think!
> 
> Y'all can thank my Women in Film class for this, I doubt I ever would've come up with it otherwise since I probably would've never discovered the existence of the film its based after without it. Would've never thought about making it into a Gradence AU but like...I never thought I'd make a Carrie AU for RK1K either, and here we are. God, at this rate I feel like all my fics are just gonna be AUs of my favorite movies dskfdkfjg--except, I dunno if I'd really call The Piano a favorite movie of mine. For what its worth I think it was a very beautifully made film (and if you know me I'm a huge slut for historical fiction) and I really enjoyed it overall, but the way the main romance plot was handled was...really gross if I'm being honest, like it was just genuinely uncomfortable, so no thanks!! Rest assured we won't be doing any of that shit here, absolutely not. If I'm gonna do it the way it should've been done!!
> 
> Anyways, leave a kudos and comment if you enjoyed, and I'll see you the next time I decide to update. No guarantees on when that'll be btw, quarantine's got me locked down into doing the rest of my classes online and I'm trying to readjust to a whole new routine rn.


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